Silence resounds, quiet sounds
never heard, lines blurred,
fine lines are absurd when less bold.
Cluttered desk reflecting
jumbled minds and muse,
(no muse is good muse)
words he chooses
lose their meanings,
demeaning his art
starting with any rhyme.
Time stands, still you
feel history repeats itself,
shelves full of books and periodicals
are illogical when left alone.
Home in a room for one
who writes what hearts express.
All the best from the poet in the big chair
who dares write such bizarre things!
© Walter J Wojtanik, 2014
THROUGH THE EYES OF A POET'S HEART 